


Linguisitics

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But—oh, come on,” he splutters. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe this. Yes, yes, very funny, joke’s on me, I get it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Seriously?” Rodney’s breathless, his blood already thrumming to new levels of speed as he stares. It’s not like this is a calm topic to discuss, not when there’s ifs and buts and maybes and perhaps to consider, all things that Rodney never likes considering. But John’s tersely delivered statement is not just unexpected, it’s unreal. “Seriously. No way. This is just some—”

But it’s not just some fob-off or any of the hundred things Rodney’s brain is telling him this _should_ be. Because John’s got that queer mix of blankness and defiance that means he’s not joking at all—joking is a little glint in his eyes and the corner of his lips tilted up, not down the way they are now, shadows darkening on the very edge where it’s cracked from too much exposure and not a whole lot of the balms Rodney’s never tried to give to him. It’s taken Rodney forever to understand this, because learning to understand John isn’t like mastering java or perl or even string-theory. He’s an entirely different language, full of things Rodney still fumbles after, uncertain that he’s putting the right twitch with the right sound.

These signs, though, are unmistakable: John Sheppard is being serious. Truthful. Brutally, painfully honest.

And Rodney still can’t believe it.

His body is still moving despite his shock, though he doesn’t realize it until he bumps into the back of his chair and slides down, somehow connecting butt to the right part of the seat. It hurts since he sits down way too fast, but for once he doesn’t think of saying ‘ow’ or whining about the inferior state of furniture—which is hideously uncomfortable, the one and only thing he’ll ever allow himself to agree on with Kavanaugh—or anything else. Mostly that’s because he doesn’t really notice the pain, or the way his chest is starting to seize up and his face is probably going red.

Because it’s _totally not possible_.

Rodney knows he’s not good at reading people. He’s good at science and math and things with constants to work with, something people never have. But there are certain things Rodney believes he’s very good at discerning, and long experimentation has proved that he’s got a 71% accuracy rate, which is better than just about anyone else. So when John shrugs the first part of Rodney’s question off, he’s certain that he’s right and this is going to be so easy from now on.

But then John answers the second part. And it becomes not so much hard as defying the laws of nature. 

“But—oh, come on,” he splutters. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe this. Yes, yes, very funny, joke’s on me, I get it.”

John just continues staring at him. Rodney’s trying to remember the longest John’s ever maintained _that_ face when trying to pull of a joke, and he’s coming up with very frightening numbers. Frightening because they all seem to start with ‘zero’, whether or not there are picos attached to them. John can do blank-face when he wants to, but his eyes aren’t usually this shadowed or inward facing, as if this is something he’s expected and worried about.

The thought that John’s been _worrying_ about this—even in theory—makes Rodney angry.

“Please,” he says, standing up and starting to pace, arms and fingers going everywhere. “You’re _beautiful_. And I’ll thank you not to call me any of the names I was frequently called growing up for saying that. It’s true. You’re beautiful, and charming, and that devil-may-care attitude is a draw back in reality, but most women don’t actually choose their partners based on reality, because if they did I wouldn’t have had to wait until grad school to get laid. But that’s not the point. You’re ... I mean. How can anyone _not_ want you?”

He knows he sounds helpless when he says that, waving his hand at John’s body like it’s what Rodney really wants. And, well, he does—he’s okay with being shallow and John is _hot_. Which he probably should’ve said instead of ‘beautiful’, but the point is that everyone knows John is attractive, and that’s just a _bonus_ : another degree to wave over people’s heads; it’s not something he needs. And he can’t seem to hide that no matter how he tries.

The haunted look is fading, at least, and John shifts his way over to lean against the wall, one arm tucked across his waist like there’s a P-90 there to hug. “Yeah, Rodney. I’m an intergalactic slut.”

“Well, if you wanted me to make a list of the people in _this_ galaxy, I can,” Rodney snaps. He’s supposed to be over Chaya by now, but he nurses grudges and wounds like cherished memories—more, sometimes—and letting go is for people who don’t have good Scottish blood in their veins. There’s a reason why terriers are from that part of the world and it has nothing to do with an overabundance of mice and rats. “And, anyway, I never called you a slut. _Radek_ called you a slut, but that’s just because he thinks you’re making time with Weir.”

The look that crosses John’s face isn’t disgust, but it’s negative enough that Rodney starts thinking. Really thinking, instead of mentally spluttering that there is no possible way for any of this to be close to the truth. Thinking about what he knows about John, and what he thinks he knows about John, and the way John reacts to things. About how he’s incredible proactive when it comes to people’s lives and fortunes and basically anything that has to do with everyone _else_.

And he thinks about how many months it’s taken for Rodney to ascertain that yes, it’s mutual, and yes, he better start doing something about it because clearly John won’t.

Rodney stops pacing and moves close enough to John that he can feel the other man’s body-heat. “So, you’re probably mad at me right now.”

“I thought you hadn’t called me a slut.”

“Oh, well, I have.” Rodney’s not a big fan of honesty, but John is—and anyway, he can use this. “Several times, actually, but that was before I realized it was jealousy and anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Rodney’s seen John backed into a corner before. Most of the time lives are at stake and John goes cold and hard, a withdrawn Rambo that gets the job done because he has to: other people are counting on him, and John hates to let anyone down. To leave anyone behind. But this doesn’t involve anyone’s life, and at this point, not even their dignity. Rodney’s done a decent job of stripping that away from both of them with a few flailing insults, so John doesn’t have the military shell to fall back on here.

He looks haunted again. A little boy that’s afraid to reach up and grab what he wants because the pretty lights can burn. And there are always people around to yell if they don’t burn deeply enough.

John’s shoulder is warm and solid under Rodney’s hand. It doesn’t shake at all, despite the quaver Rodney mentally ascribes to it. This time, he forces his voice to be calm. “Seriously?”

“It’s not a big deal.” John clearly wants to shake out from underneath Rodney’s touch, but training holds him steady. “It’s never _been_ a big deal.”

“I know. Which is why you’re probably pretty mad at me right now.”

That’s not what John expected and the little boy is back in his eyes. He does step back now, turning to face the door. Any second he’s going to announce he’s going for a run, or maybe spar with Teyla, or go flying. Those are the things John falls back on—

Except Rodney’s already told Ronon that if he sees Sheppard in the hallways to knock him out, Teyla to send him back to Rodney, and Radek’s had the jumpers locked and grounded all morning.

Rodney is not stupid. He isn’t infallible—although it’s _rare_ for him to make a mistake!—and he sucks at dealing with people. But he’s not stupid.

“Why should I be mad?” John asks. He looks like his whole body is shrouded in darkness now, Atlantis responding to his mental distress by dimming the lights that make him visible. “You didn’t say anything, er, unusual.”

“You mean you’ve had this conversation _before_?” Rodney’s blood pressure spikes and he doesn’t give a damn that this is probably the worst thing to do. He gets in John’s face and bulls him back against the wall, still glaring. “Who was it? Who!”

“No one here, jeez, Rodney. I told you to work on your issues, didn’t I?” John’s trying for banter. It’s almost good enough, too.

“And I, being vastly more intelligent, told you to sit and spin.” Which is literally what he said, something that still pains him. As insults go, it’s down there with ‘yeah, well, so are you’; he hadn’t liked learning that everyone knew of his incredible jealousy when it came to one Lt. Colonel John Sheppard. Especially when he hadn’t figured it out, yet.

John cracks a grin, crooked and so amazingly beautiful that Rodney almost leans forward to kiss him right then. “Yeah, I think you really wowed Bates with that one,” John says. “He couldn’t stop repeating it for a while.”

The only good thing, as far as Rodney can tell, is that since Atlantis is pretty much on its own, the concept of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ has been relegated to ‘who the hell cares so long as it doesn’t interfere’. It’s a good policy, already tested by Stackhouse, which takes away one of the biggest worries Rodney had, and he had a lot of those.

He just never expected to have _this_ one.

“Look,” he says, still very much in John’s personal space. “Lets back up to before I accused you of lying to me. Can you explain _how_ it’s possible? Because... ” his eyes travel up and down John’s body, as much as he can see with such close proximity, before fastening on John’s eyes, “... really, this just confirms my ‘everyone else is incredibly stupid’ theory. Now’s your chance to disprove it: go.”

His room is achingly quiet with only their breathing for noise. John’s is still slow and even, but Rodney’s close enough to feel the occasional hitch. It’s not a speaking hitch, just a ‘oh, god, what do I _say_ ’ kind of thing. Rodney’s familiar with those, but never from John who always seems to have an answer for everything. It’s a quality that Rodney finds endearing, even if John is wrong, wrong, wrong 99% of the time.

“It’s not something to analyze,” John abruptly blurts, defensive and young-sounding again. “There’s no grand plan, not even a really bad one. It just happened. Or _didn’t_ happen.”

“Yes, but _why_? I’m a scientist and I like things to work out logically. Logically, you should’ve had a girl in every port and a—”

John breaks free, striding into the center of the room. He’s simmering with emotions, all of them battering against the shell he keeps them behind no matter how Rodney chips at it. It’s not that Rodney wants to _talk_ , but Rodney hates being at a disadvantage and John’s poker face puts him at a serious one. 

Also, he wants to know everything about John, ever last molecule and tick and the more John withdraws, the stronger that desire becomes.

“Why do you care, Rodney?” John snaps, back stiff like a dog’s. “No offense, but I really don’t think you can claim that you’re, what, the white-coat Casanova?”

It’s the first real offensive move John’s made and Rodney’s ready for it. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares hard enough that John has to feel it through his clothes. “As it happens, I have an _extremely_ good reputation,” he says, lofty academic tone note-perfect.

John turns just enough that his hair sways. “Really.”

“Yes, really. It’s a common misconception that scientist are, of course, extremely bad at this kind of thing, when in actually we’re usually very _good_ at it, far better than most people. You know, it’s just another way that modern western culture—by which I mean Americans—have marginalized the truly intelligent people in this world. Here we are, not quite as pretty as someone like you, and flexibility is often an issue, but we’re highly cerebral, driven, _creative_ people and can you honestly believe we wouldn’t repeat something as often as necessary until we become _phenomenally_ good at it?”

John turns around fully. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. You’ve never had anyone till you’ve had a scientist, and most of us aren’t stupid about gender issues.”

Which is the crux of the issue, if not in the way Rodney had initially suspected. The proof is the way John’s face twitches, hair somehow _moving_ despite John’s head remaining completely still. “So, when you said that you’re experienced.... ”

“I wasn’t exaggerating. Nor were the glowing reviews I’ve received made up to assuage my ego.” Okay, so some of the reviews had been exaggerated, slightly, but he’d been trying to win over a man who communicated with _eyebrow movements_. Exaggeration had been necessary just to make them climb a little. And Rodney really hadn’t embellished all that much, something he’s always smugly happy to prove and frequently has—John’s not the only one to have stupid assumptions about geeks.

“Ah. That’s, ah. Good to know.”

“For you, yes, yes, it is. Now tell me what _I_ want to know.”

John throws him an irritated look, but it’s a last ditch effort and they both know it. “It really _isn’t_ a big deal,” he says. “I just... always wanted to fly.”

Ha, Rodney _is_ right! About something involving emotions and the way people think, so _score_! He’s definitely telling Radek about this—except he really can’t. Tell anyone. That’s the point. “You could’ve gone commercial,” he says, instead.

“Yeah, and fly airbuses all day? I would’ve gone to grad school for math before that.”

Rodney’s almost distracted before glaring at John, not amused by the attempt. It’s an argument they have frequently, because it still astounds Rodney the way John can just intuit things—mostly because he doesn’t have the training to break them down logically, which brings up the point that he _should_ , and it just devolves from there. Regardless. “Yes, and being the military equivalent of a taxi driver up at McMurdo was much more exciting.”

“Well, not all the time. But sometimes I get to fly the really cool helicopters,” John says, sarcasm on full force. Then, he drops it, shrugging. “There are combat missions. I was in a war, remember?”

Rodney rubs his forehead. “Oh, of course. Forgive me for forgetting that you’re an _adrenaline junky_ and we really don’t need you manufacturing a problem on another away mission, just because you’re bored with Teyla beating you at sticks all the time.”

John has the grace to look sheepish—that was _all his fault_ , no matter what Elizabeth insinuated—but he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, okay, fine. You’ve made your point about the military. But that only limits half your options, John!” He rarely says John’s first name. He thinks it all the time, but when he speaks it’s always ‘Colonel’ or occasionally ‘that floppy-haired idiot’. He’s always afraid that his voice will crack when he says John aloud, exactly the way it does now. “You had alien _Ancients_ who were interested in you, you can’t tell me that the women didn’t line up around the block for you.”

“And I’m some kind of _asshole_ that’s going to lead them on, making them think they’re getting something from me that I can’t give?” John’s anger is a tidal wave, breaking past restraining glass to swamp the room with unspoken invectives. “I’m _gay_ , Rodney, I’ve known since I was a kid and I wasn’t going to lie to a bunch of women just because I wanted to get my rocks off!”

He speaks without thinking: “What, you mean you couldn’t get it—”

 _“Rodney!_ Just because I have a shred of integrity doesn’t mean that I wasn’t functional!”

He blushes, but continues on mulishly. “It’s a valid question! Some people can’t, you know, although I don’t think it’s a problem with you since you had incorporeal Ancient sex and—hey!”

This time it’s John who’s blushing. His cheeks don’t turn red, but his hair gets a little flatter. “That was different.”

“Why, because it came with no strings? Right, and soldiers never have meaningless, string-free sex with whatever girl that’s willing, all over the world. I know you had offers. I know you’ve had offers _here_ , since half the base is in love with you and you Kirk your way around the galaxy.”

“I am not Captain Kirk! And half the base is _not_ in love with me!”

“Because it makes such a difference that only about a quarter are in love with you and the rest will just screw you any time or place you chose.” Rodney’s being deliberately cruel, and not just because cruel and cutting are his baseline. “That’s not the point or the issue and dammit, John, I want to know _why_. Why only two women?”

The air pressure in the room drops like he’s in the puddle jumper, inertial dampeners set to ‘off’. It crashes over them, pressing down on their bodies making Rodney’s head throb with the overwhelming heaviness of it as he watches John: the way he goes totally still, like he’s not even breathing, eyes livid and wild as they stare at Rodney’s.

“One to prove I was gay, not bi.” The words are faint, creaking out behind walls stronger than anything the Ancients could ever built. They echo through Rodney’s body until his bones vibrate, each syllable tattooed onto him. “One to prove that I couldn’t lie to anyone. Especially myself.”

The pressure doesn’t abate.

“Lie?”

“About what I really wanted, and what I was willing to ... accept.”

Rodney doesn’t remember moving. He doesn’t remember slamming John into the nearest wall, scattering papers as he seals his mouth over John’s. All he can think is that it wouldn’t matter if John was old, or fat, or stupid, because it’s the depths of him that call out to Rodney. The confirmation that Rodney’s not just right, but not right _enough_ turns him on like nothing else, cock hard and pulsing as it rides along John’s thigh, his hands busy in messy hair that really is as spikey-soft as it looks.

John’s moaning, trying to say something but the words are too muffled for Rodney to care about. He kisses John quiet, oddly content just to stay like this, leaning slightly on his toes so he can rub his lips against a cheek rough with stubble and hot skin that’s never felt this before, not from someone John really _wants_ , because John’s never let himself want someone when he’d never give up the sky. His jaw’s never been nibbled, his throat licked and sucked until a dark spot forms on pale, soft skin, his ears not pinched and nipped nearly enough. Rodney’s going to spend hours, years bestowing all the things John’s denied himself, because John’s an idiot with too much damned honor about the stupidest things, and Rodney really _is_ the slut they all attribute to John.

But right now ...

Rodney does the trick that took him two months to master, getting John stripped and on the bed before John even realizes it. “Wha—mmph!” John moans into the kiss, letting his limbs splay out with the very opposite of military precision and control. 

“No talking,” he orders. “You have been depriving yourself to the point where you’re probably medically _warped_. This is dangerous and clearly needs the attentions of a professional— _or_ , shut up, a highly skilled amateur, now be quiet unless you don’t want me to blow your brains through your dick.”

John shuts up. He’s looking amused—or would be if his eyes weren’t so wide, pupil’s completely dilated—but he does shut up.

Certain he won’t be interrupted again, Rodney extends his area of interest to include collarbones and a chest that is hairy, but still so damned soft, defined muscles fluttering as he moves over them, nipples perking up while John makes gasping noises. His dog tags are cold, but that’s good too and Rodney doesn’t move them. John’s body is so tense it’s practically vibrating underneath him, and Rodney has to remind himself that John really is _that_ inexperienced. Porn and his right hand have been his one and only for _years_ —Rodney has to shudder at that, because the _horror_ —and even if they weren’t, John’s never had anything but two fumbling girls, one of whom was probably a virgin. Which means John’s still practically a virgin, too, and that thought does very, _very_ bad things to Rodney’s cock.

He’s got to take his own boxers off, soon, because no way is he letting the washing detail wonder.

He slows down even more, though, humming a little under his breath as his touches take on a more massaging cast. That seems to help, John slowly relaxing as his navel is worshiped, the delicate skin of his hips, utterly smooth with translucent blue veins showing underneath, shown to be the serious hot-spot Rodney’s always suspected given the way John holds his P-90. He doesn’t stop when John twitches, or makes a noise that isn’t precisely pleasurable, but he does slow down whatever he’s doing, letting John get comfortable with lips on his inner thigh, a tongue flickering against balls that don’t seem at all deformed, although Rodney still has suspicions. Rodney really _does_ know what he’s doing, listening to John’s heart pound, his breathing accelerate as he’s slowly turned on to the point most men start babbling, desperate for something to touch their dicks and give them relief.

John doesn’t babble, though. He just squeezes his eyes tight, his body getting looser as Rodney expertly puts his fingers just _there_ , his mouth trailing just _here_. His chest is heaving now, dog tags sliding over skin grown slick with sweat, tiny noises sneaking out from behind a clenched jaw. His dick is hard, reddish without reaching the angry red color Rodney thinks it should be after being so deprived, curling up towards his belly. It’s beautiful, just like John is, and Rodney wants to suck it so much his jaw is already aching from the imagined pressure, but not yet. Not yet. Not until John stops making strained noises and finally moans, mouth opening, his body losing the tension Rodney doesn’t understand for a more familiar kind of strain. Not until John’s begging without words, his entire body given over to Rodney’s lips and tongue and fingers.

And when that happens, when John finally gasps like he’s shattering inside and _relaxes_ , Rodney swoops down over his cock, swallowing repeatedly.

John’s taste is bitter, but the bitterness of the cold, clean air at thirty thousand feet, rushing past you faster than sound itself can travel.

“So.” John’s been staring at the ceiling for a while, so relaxed that Rodney’s suspected he’s asleep. It’s not something Rodney objects to—for the moment, anyway—because he’s well aware of how powerful something like this can be.

And no, he doesn’t mean the orgasm.

“So,” Rodney echoes, stretching out beside John. He smiles a private smile that’d put a cat to shame when John’s arm circles his shoulders, pulling him closer. “So, yes? So, no? So, you need to do more research? Because we can do the research, in fact, I’ve got quite a _lot_ of research planned for you.”

“Great. You’re smug now.” John smiles as he rolls enough to kiss Rodney. It’s a tentative thing, tongue almost mincing inside; Rodney allows John to go at his own pace, letting him grow accustomed to a flavor he’s never really tasted before. That lasts for possibly two seconds before John’s eagerly sucking at his tongue, rolling over to pin Rodney to the bed. John is infinitely adaptable and Rodney has a moment to wonder what kind of monster he’s about to unleash—and if he should worry—when John says, “Unfortunately, it’s justifiable smugness.”

“Really?” The word escapes before Rodney can stop it, and he can’t seem to modify what is probably the neediest, most pathetic expression he’s ever worn. “Well, I mean, of course I am, after all I _am_ a slut—” and wow, that comes out far more bitter than he means, “—it’s not like blowjobs are _hard_ or even very complicated.”

John silences him with a long, slow kiss. “Seriously,” is all he says. Fortunately, Rodney’s become very good at reading the language of John Sheppard’s face, and eyebrows, and especially his hair, which is now standing straight up, even messier from Rodney’s fingers carding through it.

He’s not certain he’s understanding all of it, but that’s okay. Where’s the fun without the challenge?


	2. Syntax

When John thinks about it, it’s always Emily he remembers. Emily Daschel of Knoxville, Tennessee, blonde hair waving around her head like a straw-colored halo, eyes a haunting combination of knowing and adoration whenever they looked up at him.

He wishes he could remember Sarah. That was fumbling and awkward and just as awful as mutual first-times should be, full of broken expectations, unexpected pain, and the growing distance that meant _maybe we don’t want to try this again._ It’s not a good memory, but it’s an easier one to handle. Especially since he knows for a fact that Sarah married a man a few years later that treated her nice and gave her the 2.5 kids and the picket fences she wanted.

Idly, he thinks about checking up on her. Just to see if Tommy is still as decent as she’d haltingly told him.

But when he closes his eyes, Rodney’s incredulous words still echoing in his ears, it’s Emily’s face he sees. The way she’d get the tiniest dimple when she smiled, like she knew a secret only the truly wise could understand, but never made you feel left out about it. She was mother earth to John, a softened, curving shadow that guarded his dreams and smoothed out the harsh edges of his life. She was comforter and provider, appearing randomly—when allowed and appropriate, of course, clearing it with his superiors like a good officer’s girl should—with picnic lunches or even just a thermos of tea made the way John’s mother used to: good Southern tea, richer, somehow, with too much sugar-water for all the Yankees to stand. She’d laughed the right ways, touched him like he was precious to her, and never once demanded a thing.

They’d dated for almost a year.

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe this,” Rodney’s saying, so incredulous that the words lose form and meaning long before they’re released into the air. “Yes, yes, very funny, joke’s on me, I get it.”

Emily had done everything right. She’d pleased his father, still uncertain what to do with a top-graduate of the Air Force Academy that still wasn’t quite what he’d wanted. She’d pleased the military, her sunny beauty making him a hit with the men while her southern charm, rare when stationed in Massachusetts, and made the officers feel gently mothered, their rigid stances a tribute to her and not the hours spent under the deafening shouts of a drill sergeant. She’d reassured his mother who, even while slowly fading from cancer, had fretted and worried over her only child being all alone in the world. 

John’s mother had been the emotional rock for both the Sheppard men, the perfectly trained military wife from a long line of military wives. She’d been terrified John would want someone progressive, a woman who could never truly understand that being married to a military man meant being married to the _military_ —there was no room for feminism, as she had said disdainfully. An officer’s wife tended to her husband and her husband’s career, nothing more. Emily had soothed that fear, letting her pass into death with quiet repose, knowing that an imminent daughter-in-law was there to take up her burdens.

John still hates that he’d waited a week after his mother’s funeral before officially breaking up with her.

“You’re ... I mean. How can anyone _not_ want you?”

Rodney sounds helplessly bewildered, dismayed and almost _awed_ that so many have ignored what Rodney thinks is blindingly obvious. It wasn’t always ignored, of course. Before Emily and after, the girls would slink up against him in bars, heavily made up eyes offering if the scrawled phone-number on the napkin didn’t work. As the years crawled past, and John’s reputation as a recluse grew, the offers became bolder—warm hands, bird-thin and delicate, reaching into uncomfortable places, or soft curves pressed up too hard against his hips and thighs. Once the girl was naked, slipping in beside him, and cursing virulently in a language John didn’t know when her advances were abruptly stopped.

John would always push them all away, not just the enthusiastic ones, smiling as charmingly as he knew how as he gracefully declined. The grace was hard won, and it makes him smile now when he charms alien races with skills they never taught him in Academy.

“Seriously?” Rodney asks, like the repetition is going to change the answer.

He remembers the way Emily looked as she haltingly undressed herself for bed, the few nights John stayed over. Especially the week after his mother’s death. He remembers looking into wide eyes, color shifting as often as the emotions she never gave voice to, and the questions that lived there. The way her body slid against his own, both still in sleep clothes despite the long weekend, the slight buzz of one beer too many, and hormones no twenty three year old should have been able to restrain. He remembers he didn’t sleep at all those nights, and that she probably didn’t, either.

“It’s not a big deal.” Rodney’s so close—too close—big and blocky and so unlike Emily that it’s almost a shock: a _good_ one, and that scares him worse than the Wraith ever have. “It’s never _been_ a big deal.”

The rumors should have been intense. A man who doesn’t have a girl, doesn’t talk much when men far from their girlfriends and wives discuss what they miss most or that new porn flick they scored last week? Never coming back from leave stinking of cheap perfume and musk? There should’ve been a _lot_ of rumors. Side-long glances during briefings, the uncomfortable dance of getting-too-close in communal showers—hell, he should’ve had ‘faggot’ repeatedly scrawled on his duffle bag. But for reasons John can’t understand, the rumors never really took hold. 

Oh, they were started—trouble always starts, regardless of conditions or intentions. He never tried to mitigate them, either, just kept on being utterly transparent as he did his job and lived for the moments he went up in the air. No side-long looks at men’s bodies, even training himself out of _dreaming_ of what it could be—because he’d made his choices and he’d live with them. So when the whispers began, there’d be a few days of snickering and getting a little offended, and then it would vanished, soap bubbles bursting—too big, not enough tension (evidence) to hold them together. 

John became the guy other guys turned to, questions furtively asked because if it’s wasn’t one polarity, then it had to be the other.

John doesn’t know if that was luck, or Emily just not being that pissed off at him—an officer’s girl knew how to work the politics, after all.

By rights, Emily should’ve hated him. His mother had been cold for not quite seven days and after eleven months of dating— the night before only the second time they’d ever had sex. It wasn’t bad sex, either, or at least was better than John’d ever known, and Emily hadn’t seemed to be upset about it. But wasn’t _enough_. And when he sat down across the red-checked table cloth in Emily’s little apartment—paid for by her daddy, and probably under constant surveillance when anyone other than John approached it—he could see she already knew. She probably already had John’s things packed by then, lovingly folded into neat bundles—because providing was what she did, even when her heart was being ripped out and stomped all over. Because a military wife _endured_ , even when she wasn’t yet his wife and never would be.

John will never be sure, because halfway through the conversation, he ran. Ran back to the base and stole a helicopter, pulling in all kinds of favors as he radioed to the tower because that— _flying_ —surrounded by cold metal and colder sky—was better than all the touches Emily could ever give him. It was what his body was born to do, release granted with a perfectly executed maneuver; affection with the stiff wind that blades sliced through again and again, clouds buffering him like a hug.

Flying had always been his solace. It was a short step for it to become his lover, too.

“It really isn’t a big deal,” he says, knowing how many pieces of himself he has left to give away, and how many Rodney is taking. “I just... always wanted to fly.”

It took him six months to find out that, according to the base, Emily had broken _his_ heart. That she’d fallen in love with Major Robert Carlise—whom she later married—and felt so bad that, over Robert’s objections, she was still taking care of all the little things for John. Even when he was in Afghanistan, care-packages arrived once a month like clockwork. 

A tragic story of the perfidity—and the loyalty—of a good woman. A good _wife_.

“Okay, okay, fine.” Rodney’s dogged persistence never ceases to amuse John. It also makes him want to shoot Rodney in the head. “You’ve made your point about the military. But that only limits half your options, John! You had alien Ancients who were interested in you, you can’t tell me that the women didn’t line up around the block for you.”

John knows the exact moment when his control frays, worried to nothing under Rodney’s words, letting loose parts of himself he’d thought buried under too-thin air and too-wet clouds for over a decade. Knows it because this isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation with his father, and the millionth time with himself: “And I’m some kind of _asshole_ that’s going to lead them on, making them think they’re getting something from me that I can’t give?”

It’s Emily’s persistence, so appreciated in Rodney, that kills him. Rips his heart out and keeps his dick soft no matter how string-less the offers are—because they always come with Emily’s face attached, soft words like funeral bells explaining that she’d always known John wasn’t interested in her—her body—but she’d hoped her mind and her heart would be enough. And that it was okay that it wasn’t; she understood. There’s no condemnation, no insinuations, just a girl that had loved someone unable to love her in return. Simple. Uncomplicated. Undemanding.

John isn’t the kind of man who cries, but thinking of Emily always comes with a sharp sting of salt where none should be. Even now, when Rodney’s panting as heavily as he is, blue eyes brighter than Atlantis’ waters, he can feel that prickling warning that says he’s almost gone too far. That if he lets go now, he’ll never ever get it back.

And for the first time ever, John’s not sure he _wants_ it to come back.

“About what I really wanted, and what I was willing to ... accept.”

Before Emily, all John had wanted was the sky. After, all he cares about is his men. Long before he has the rank and the pay-grade that puts him in command, the men are _his_ to look after. His to feed and maintain, to check up on and drop casual gifts on because they’re in a hot, dry, dusty place where the people look at you funny and all they have is each other and the memory of the families they’ve left behind. John loses himself in the beat of the chopper and the constant thrum of worry over men who don’t know how to take care of themselves, earning lecture after black mark because those stupid, fragile lives are more important than obeying orders, more necessary than the repercussions.

It’s his punishment and his reward all in one. Because at twenty three years of age he’d learned that nothing, no one, no gentle woman, no hard-bodied man, was ever going to be as perfect as Emily Daschel was for him.

He won’t accept anything else. Won’t allow himself to consider anything _less_.

When he finally says the words aloud, letting god and country and a strange, alien city that welcomes him like lostling son hear, at first it sounds petty. He can’t be what one girl wants him to be, so he’ll restrict himself to a life of bad porn and his own right hand? That’s teenaged angst and John likes to think that he’s grown up at least a little. But Rodney...

Rodney isn’t looking at him like he’s a selfish, sullen brat too stupid to see what’s around him. He’s look at John like John is wondrous, precious and delicate—like a new piece of technology no one’s ever seen before. Like John’s handed him over the keys to something, and though _John_ may not know where the lock is, Rodney does—and he’s moving, pushing him back, body hard and heavy and hot and other ‘h’ words John can’t think of because _kissing_. Deep and strong and sure and John is just barely man enough to admit that he melts a little bit, slumped between a cold wall and Rodney’s frantic heartbeat. This is real kissing, the way the fumbling attempts he’s made never come close, and it’s perfect. It’s _right_.

For the first time in ten years and more, Emily’s face fades from view.

She’s not gone, of course. John knows that even as Rodney turns on the focus and the skill and god, John’s never _imagined_ it could feel this way, and he’s imagined plenty: he’s repressed and psychologically cracked; he’s not insane. But John’s head is consumed with sex, all the porn he’s ever watched and the stories he’s ever heard the only basis for prediction—and there’s no Emily, looking faintly reproving and blankly disappointed. If anything—

“No talking,”Rodney orders. John has to wonder if Rodney can hear his mental angsting, but then he realizes that he’s been talking, or at least trying to with an agile mouth swallowing all of his words. “You have been depriving yourself to the point where you’re probably medically _warped_. This is dangerous and clearly needs the attentions of a professional— _or_ , shut up, a highly skilled amateur, now be quiet unless you don’t want me to blow your brains through your dick.”

—anything, she’s smirking just a little.

John gasps and arches as Rodney touches him with as much experience as he claimed. It’s frightening, though he’ll never admit it, because John hates not being able to do something or at least be comfortable with this process. He knows the mechanics, understands the issues, but also understands that knowing and doing are two different things and he’s lost in the middle of the ocean without a rope. But Rodney never goes too fast, never gets impatient with him. He just slows down, coaxing John into the kind of state he’s never once felt without being thirty thousand feet in the air. It’s _amazing_ , the way he’s always heard sex should be but never was, except now it is and god damn the U.S. Military and their stupid rules because he could’ve had this _years ago_ if not for them!

But as Rodney’s mouth sinks over his cock—oh, _god_ , hot and _god_ , not gonna— _god!_ —John understands it’s not Emily, or the U.S. military that’s kept him celibate and coping for all these years. Not parental pressure, or cultural stigma, or his own privately repressed fears and decisions. It’s because he’s never had Rodney before, to break down barriers his ego determines immaterial, shaping the world to how he desires it, and forcing John to conform along with chastised molecules and meekly whimpering laws of physics. 

John hasn’t been hiding. He’s been _waiting_.

That, more than the muscles working tight and slick around the head of his cock, sends him crashing into white heat that has him blind and limp and _open_ for longer than he’s ever been in his entire life.

As the world coalesces into something recognizable, John stares at the broken bits scattered all over his mind. He’ll have to deal with those, eventually, because he needs walls to survive, boundaries for what’s appropriate in this place and not appropriate there—even if the boundaries just provide something for him to butt stubbornly against. He’s always been a fan of the ‘rules were made to be broken’ idiom. 

This isn’t broken so much as demolished, blown to infinitesimal pieces, a speciality of Rodney’s.

Rodney, who is laying beside him, quieter than John’s ever known him. It’s a pensive sort of quiet, restrained because Rodney is an unobservant asshole, but he’s still human and he isn’t—often—intentionally cruel and he understands that pushing now is probably a very dangerous thing to do.

Also, John realizes, because he’s _nervous_.

Rodney is never nervous. Rodney the self-proclaimed and now-proven sex god has no reason to be nervous. But John isn’t a fellow scientist who has a thousand questions in his head, drowning out awkward emotions as irrelevant. He’s something he doesn’t think Rodney’s ever had before—something he doesn’t think _he’s_ ever had, before Rodney.

A friend. Not just a buddy or a coworker or a guy to go grab a beer with. The type of friend you give pieces of yourself to with every word and gesture, tossing them across the field in the fervent hope that they won’t be abused when finally caught.

John holds just as much of Rodney as Rodney now holds of him. It’s ... nice.

“So,” he says. He tries to imbue the word with the sense of wonder he’s still feeling, tiny shocks spider-webbing up his body as it remembers what an actual orgasm is supposed to feel like.

“So.” Rodney’s voice is trembling a little, softer and higher as he waits. When the blow doesn’t fall, the energy returns and words start tumbling over themselves, faster and faster, rising hope like the sun’s greeting: any sun John’s seen on any world. “So, yes? So, no? So, you need to do more research? Because we can do the research, in fact, I’ve got quite a lot of research planned for you.”

“Great. You’re smug now.” John doesn’t think Rodney hears the laughter, but that’s okay. He will, in time. Because now John _has_ that time, on the other side of the galaxy where death hangs over them like the mist-shrouded sun on a gloomy spring day. He’ll make the time, because John’s finally figured out what Emily had been trying to tell him, so long ago, and it’s a lesson he won’t let himself forget.

Plus, sex. Really _good_ sex, based on John’s limited sample, with a man who never does anything by half measures.

“Unfortunately,” he drawls, “it’s justifiable smugness.”

That’s all Rodney needs to burst from the gate, off and running without looking around to see if the other horses are keeping pace. John chuckles and lets him, because he’s learned to love Rodney’s voice and continuous babble out of sheer self-preservation. Besides, he likes hearing all the things Rodney wants to do to him—wow, he’s not _that_ flexible—and better yet, he likes it when he gets to shut Rodney up with a kiss.


End file.
